


Physicality

by pixymisa



Category: Leverage
Genre: M/M, Porn, vignette-style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixymisa/pseuds/pixymisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, there's this tension running between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Physicality

See, the thing about him and Hardison is that they fight. A lot. Not the kind of fighting that Eliot’s used to, a couple of swings and one good dirty shot, not the serious primal life-or-death struggle that he’s so good at, but the other kind. They argue, they debate, they disagree, and they bicker. And Eliot likes the guy, really, as much as he likes anyone these days. 

But sometimes, when they’re in the thick of it all, there’s this tension running between them that he can’t explain. Usually there’s Nate or Sophie or even Parker there, and someone will say something and it will break and subside like a cresting wave. Like it was never there to start.

This isn’t one of those times. It’s just him and Hardison, alone in Eliot’s apartment. And Eliot doesn’t even know how it came to this, what series of events led up to this moment. Hell, he doesn’t know exactly what they’re arguing about, only that it’s loud and heated. Eliot snaps off something, some line about Hardison being a geek, and Hardison returns with a reference that just flies over Eliot’s head.

And then it happens.

Eliot doesn’t know which one of them started it. Maybe it was both of them, maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe this was inevitable. But suddenly, somehow, they’re crashing against each other, Hardison’s tongue is in his mouth, and Eliot has his shirt fisted with both hands.

There’s no air to breathe between them, just the slide of their mouths and the burn of stubble. Eliot never would have guessed that Hardison’s a good kisser, and now the proof of it, his bruised lips and aching cock, taunts him. But as frantic as Eliot feels, Hardison takes his time. He weaves his fingers into Eliot’s hair, uses his grip to pull Eliot’s mouth against his own, sucks at his lips for a moment, only to yank his head to the side and expose his neck. And Eliot lets him do it, lets him press his mouth against the skin and dig his teeth in.

It’s good, better than good, actually, but there’s not enough naked skin under his hands. He pulls on Hardison’s shirt, and Hardison shrugs out of it, faster and easier than Eliot expects. For a moment he’s unbalanced, unsure, unready, but then Hardison steps in closer. He’s a little on the lean side, narrower than Eliot, but long. They’re both breathing hard, and Eliot can see the fine sheen of sweat on Hardison’s skin, can smell it on him.

There’s a moment here, when Eliot thinks that this will break and subside, like it has before. But then Hardison reaches out and pushes him back. The couch is right there behind his knees, and he falls back onto it, stares up at Hardison in a swirl of arousal and confusion. It’s not often that Eliot’s out of his element, and he doesn’t have experience in this arena at all – and there’s Hardison, skin dark and glossy, eyes burning, looking down at him like he’s debating which tactic to use.

Hardison shucks off his shoes and pants and kicks them aside, hooks his thumbs on the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and pulls down. His cock springs free, and that there is the moment when Eliot figures that this is real, that this is really going to happen.

That he wants it to happen.

Hardison climbs onto him, straddles Eliot’s lap, hooks his fingers in his hair again. And Eliot, Eliot reaches out and touches that smooth skin, runs his hands down Hardison’s back, feels Hardison arch up into it. Feels Hardison’s cock slide against his stomach, hot even through two layers of clothing.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He wants to keep going, keep up a steady stream of swears, but Hardison dips his head and catches Eliot’s lower lip with his teeth. Hardison isn’t gentle, takes his time with it, lets Eliot feel the delicious scrape and drag as he pulls away. And when their mouths come apart again, Hardison untangles one hand from Eliot’s hair, props himself up against his chest, and then reaches between them.

Hot fingers curl against Eliot’s stomach, rucking his shirts up, unbuckling his belt and opening up his jeans. And all at once, there’s both too much sensation and not enough. When Hardison’s hand closes around Eliot’s cock, it takes all of his self control not to lose it then and there. And Hardison is still moving, jerking him with slow, practiced strokes, the glint in his eye looking suspiciously like approval. Eliot opens his mouth, maybe to say, “dammit, Hardison,” maybe to say something else entirely, maybe he doesn’t even know, but before he can make a sound Hardison is back in his space, mouth against his, deft tongue delving deep. And Eliot holds on, opens up into it, gives his best right back. 

When Hardison pulls back again, his breathing is just as ragged as Eliot’s.

Hardison shifts on his lap again, naked skin catching on denim, reminding Eliot that he still has too many clothes on. But he’s distracted by the soft crackle of foil in Hardison’s other hand, the one still caught up in his hair. Eliot has no idea how that detail managed to escape his notice, when Hardison palmed a condom or even where he got it. But it’s not important, not really, because then Hardison pulls that hand free, reaches up to his mouth with the wrapper, and tears it open with his teeth. Rehearsed, obviously, but effective. And then he slides back on Eliot’s lap, pulls the condom free of the wrapper, rolls it on Eliot like this is nothing, like he does this all the time. Not rehearsed, not for show like before, but an actual honest-to-god skill.

The latex is cold against Eliot’s cock, but it brings everything back into sharp focus. The sheer heat of Hardison on him, the long lines of his fingers, soft but sure, first sliding Eliot’s overshirt off and then pulling his henley up over his head. Eliot lets him, but shoves his jeans and briefs down himself. Hardison cants his hips up, making room, and scoots forward. When he settles back, Eliot’s cock is in the crease of his ass.

Hardison breathes out, long and slow, reaches for Eliot and tangles his fingers in his hair again, leans in to work his mouth across Eliot’s jaw, alternating lips and teeth, kissing and sucking and biting. Eliot runs his hands down the line of Hardison’s spine, down to the curve of that admittedly very nice ass.

This part, at least, is familiar. The angle is slightly different, and he needs a little saliva to ease the way, but lining himself up, working his way in, bucking his hips up to meet Hardison’s, all of that is something Eliot can do. And Hardison, Hardison rocks his hips in little circles, slides down his cock inch by inch, makes Eliot take his time with it, until they’re fitted together, like fingers in a fist, tucked tight.

Eliot’s had it with going slow, of taking his time. He braces his hands on Hardison’s hips, digs his thumbs into the narrow crest of bone until Hardison’s gasping. Thrusts up into him, takes him hard and fast, like this is another fight, another battle to be won. And Hardison, Hardison keeps up with him, meets each thrust with a roll of his hips. He tips his face toward the ceiling, lips wet and parted, and Eliot reaches up with one hand to grab him behind the neck, pulls him in close to capture that mouth. 

Hardison shifts forward to meet him, just enough that the angle changes, and on the recoil Eliot’s cock slips free. He grunts in frustration, reaches for his cock to readjust. Before he can, Hardison has him, takes Eliot’s cock in his hand and guides him back in, breathes out a long, shaky breath as he sinks back down on it. And then Eliot snaps his hips up, and Hardison leans in for another kiss, and it’s back on, like there wasn’t an interruption at all.

He can feel the tension building in Hardison’s lean frame, feel it as he starts to fall out of this rhythm they have going, as Hardison’s grip on Eliot’s hair tightens. He hasn’t even touched himself, Eliot realizes dimly, and then Hardison’s clenching down on Eliot’s cock, spilling hot streaks across Eliot’s chest. 

Eliot’s almost gone, lost in the heat and sweet friction. He doesn’t let up, holds Hardison’s hips in place, so close to that moment he can taste it. And when it comes, it blots out everything, like it always does – the past, what he’s done, what he will do again – leaving just the present. Hardison collapses onto his chest, sweaty and all fucked-out, panting against his neck.

He lies there, Hardison sprawled across him, sticky and sated. It never lasts long, this moment of peace, and when it all comes crashing back—

“I ain’t gay.”

It’s out before Eliot realizes that he’s said anything. Hardison stiffens on top of him, untangles his hands from his hair, pushes off and gets to his feet.

“Neither am I,” Hardison replies. There’s something dark in his eyes, something that Eliot can’t read. And there’s a moment of tension here, a moment where it all stops, where Eliot can open his mouth again and explain. But then the moment passes, and Hardison says, “I’m gonna go use your shower,” and he turns away.

And Eliot’s left alone, wondering what the hell just happened.


	2. Reiteration

_“All right, Hardison,”_ Nate says over the comms, _“I have her set up. Do your thing.”_

There’s a reason why Hardison is this good at his job. You see, his brain? It never turns off. Even when he’s in the middle of creating five completely awesome, completely undetectable false identities, there’s more than enough brain to keep working on the side.

That includes working on the fake website for Nate’s fake investment company, down to the active forums that he’s also keeping active with five different logins, and an active IT department that’s just him sending terse emails to himself. On top of that, he has a few tabs open on his second monitor, watching four different camera feeds of CCTV security footage, torrenting the latest Doctor Who episode, and working on his Torchwood fanfic. 

Oh yeah, and incidentally also taking down a corrupt bank executive.

“On it,” he replies. There’s an old scheme at work with the website, a simple hack of the mark’s internet browser – seriously, Internet Explorer? Hardison would personally take her down for that crime alone – that gives him access to her personal information, account numbers, emails, the works, so long as she’s using the hacked browser. “Everything’s looking good. I’ll give you a head’s up when we get the goods.”

 _“Eliot,”_ Nate continues, _“how’s security looking?”_

 _“Unconscious,”_ Eliot growls.

Okay, maybe Hardison’s neglecting his fic and the torrent has been done for a little over an hour, but that’s only because he has something else that’s taken up residence in his brain. He tabs over to the CCTV footage, does a quick sweep to make sure Eliot kept his face away from the cameras. And also to check out his badass moves.

“Nate, minor issue,” Hardison tells him. “Got a hit on Eliot’s face in the security footage.”

It _is_ just a minor issue, and they’ve dealt with worse in more dire circumstances, but still. This is Eliot. If Eliot doesn’t want you to see his face, then you’re not going to see his face. Maybe the bank security is just that good, or maybe this has something to do with that other thing.

 _“Eliot,”_ Nate says, in that tone of voice that means he’s already recalculating his plan, _“get out, get to the van.”_

Eliot doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t make some snarky comment about Hardison or Lucille being Nerd Central or whatever. Hardison tries not to think about why Eliot’s acting more like Grumpy Cat than he normally does, but really, erasing security footage and time-stamping the replacement loop is not enough to keep his mind busy.

Him and Eliot. Less than a week ago, they fucked. Hardison still hasn’t worked out how he feels about it, but with Eliot coming to invade his space in his van, he has to get right up on top of things. It’s complicated, little intertwined gears of their relationship on the job, Eliot’s disdain for anything electronic unless there are sports broadcasts involved, and the slow glacial crawl of their friendship, which may or may not have ended that night on Eliot’s couch.

Lucille’s back door swings open, and in grumps one Eliot Spencer. He enters without a word, slams the door shut again, and then parks his ass next to Hardison and the computers. His hair is doing that thing where it’s falling out of the ponytail and starting to curl from sweat and the humidity. Hardison has this urge to card his fingers through the mess of it.

Instead, Hardison kills a few tabs discreetly, the incognito windows with the fanfic and the torrent and the other security footage he’s been watching. He makes himself focus on the fake website, adds a worm to the About Us page for their mark to come across, maybe get some real access to her encrypted hard drives, then tabs back to the forums to create some more chatter.

“What are you doing?” Eliot asks, the first words either of them has said to the other since Hardison walked out of his apartment last week. It’s better than ‘I ain’t gay,’ but not by much.

“Doing my job,” Hardison replies, maybe with a bit more bite to it than he actually intends. “No one will buy that Nate’s company is as big and powerful as he says it is without something to back it up,” he continues. “Having an active website is the first disguise.”

Eliot just grunts. “Who even cares?”

Okay, so this is going to be an ‘Eliot is a dick’ kind of day. Hardison continues on with his explanation, like Eliot didn’t even say anything, like Eliot really actually cares about what the hell Hardison does for them. “Having several different department heads emailing each other is the second, for when she gets a techie involved to investigate us. I have a backlog queued up, fortunately, already programmed in case Nate needs me inside.”

 _“Ah, guys?”_ Nate again.

Eliot turns to him, ignoring Nate, and just from his expression Hardison can tell that there’s going to be another fight. And he’s so sick of it, sick of defending what he does to someone who doesn’t even give a shit. Hardison interrupts him before he can open his mouth to start it, starts the fight for him. “Don’t do it, man, don’t make me reprogram everything in your life just to spite you. It’ll take an hour of my time, tops.”

 _“Guys!”_

“What?” they yell back at Nate, in unison. If he weren’t kind of pissed off, Hardison would have found it funny.

_“If you’re really going to argue right now, would you do us the courtesy of at least muting your comms while you do it?”_

Hardison cusses and Eliot growls, but they switch the earbuds over to receive-only. Hardison starts to open his mouth again for a good solid rant, but Eliot cuts him off, grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in close.

“Dammit, Hardison,” he says, “you talk too much.”

And then they’re kissing. Again. Hardison’s stupid brain keeps going, thinks about the other security footage he’s watched, over and over, thinks that if Eliot knew he keeps tabs on him, on all of them, he’d be so pissed. He thinks about the three women that Eliot’s had at his place in the last six days, thinks about Eliot’s face caught on camera, thinks about how Eliot picked this fight, thinks about how hot Eliot’s breath is, how he smells like sweat and violence, and about how good it felt to be straddling him on that couch.

Mostly, though, he thinks, _‘Ain’t gay’ my black ass._

Hardison's self-control gets tossed aside, and he reaches out to the mess of Eliot's hair, pulls out the elastic band, tangles his fingers in the damp strands. Eliot starts to pull back, starts to shrug away from him, but Hardison keeps his grip firm and sure. If Eliot wants something this time, he's going to have to talk.

“Hardison,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “let go. Let me—”

Hardison pulls away, pissed, but he doesn’t let go. He’s hard, though, and if Eliot is going to be a dick, then Hardison can be one right back. He tugs on Eliot’s hair, pushes Eliot’s head down towards his lap. About halfway there, Eliot seems to take the hint. He unbuttons Hardison’s jeans with a flick of his thumb, unzips his fly, and then reaches under the band of his underwear to work his cock free.

Hardison scoots his ass forward on the chair, leans back and lets his knees fall open. He thinks that any minute now, Eliot’s going to stop everything, that he’ll say something like, “Dammit, Hardison, this isn’t one of your freaky anime pornos,” and it will all be over. But instead, Eliot slithers out of his seat, gets on the floor between Hardison’s thighs, and takes him in his mouth.

It’s Eliot’s first time giving a blowjob, it has to be. Hardison’s had more than a few before, and he’s pretty sure he can tell. Eliot’s awkward about it, slides down the length of him, too fast and with too little saliva. He stops for a moment, backs off and coughs and wipes at his mouth. And it’s so strange to see Eliot look awkward at _anything_ that it takes a moment for Hardison to think to guide him, to make Eliot fist the base of his cock, to cup his cheek with one hand and ease him into a rhythm.

It doesn’t take long. Maybe because it’s been awhile since Hardison’s had someone go down on him, maybe it’s because he’s still kind of pissed off, or maybe it’s because Eliot looks damn hot with a cock in his mouth. But he clenches his hands in Eliot’s hair, and Eliot presses the thumb of his free hand into Hardison’s hip, and he’s so close he can taste it. He could warn Eliot that he’s about to come, he could.

But he doesn’t.

Eliot rears back, turns his head to the side and spits on Lucille’s carpeting. Hardison opens his mouth to say something about it, something like “respect the van” or “I’ll send you the cleaning bill, asshole,” but then Eliot looks at him again. There’s a little white smear across his lip, and as Hardison watches, Eliot darts his tongue out to lick at it, only to pause and make a face.

Eliot starts to turn away, but Hardison still has a grip on his hair, and he pulls Eliot’s head up towards him and licks at his mouth. Hardison likes this part, tasting himself. It’s even better on Eliot – the burn of his stubble, the salty taste of his skin – everything winds him back up in a hurry. And then Eliot surges into his space, pressing him back against the chair, bruising Hardison with his kisses.

“I need...” Eliot mumbles, but his mouth is too occupied to finish, and he trails off into a low groan. It’s pretty obvious what he needs, and Hardison takes a moment to listen to the idle chatter echoing through the comms. Nothing yet, and it’s not like Nate really needs him for anything technical at the moment.

“Me too,” Hardison replies.

Eliot manhandles him out of the chair, pulls him down to the floor, pushes him onto his back and starts for his pants. Hardison helps him get them out of the way, and then reaches for Eliot’s jeans. There’s not enough time to get naked, he thinks as he yanks them down, freeing Eliot’s cock. There’s only enough time to press a condom into Eliot’s hands, to help him roll it on, and to pull Eliot down on top of him.

Eliot isn’t gentle about fucking him. He slides his cock in all at once, hard and fast. It’s a nice cock, built a little like Eliot is – short, but thick. Hardison felt it for days after the last time, and this is faster, harder. He digs his nails into Eliot’s back, arches up into him, holds on tight. He’s so hard he can cut fucking glass, and then Eliot buries his face in Hardison’s neck and bites down.

Hardison’s stupid brain keeps thinking, and he wonders about those three women again, wonders if it was like this for them, if they were shoved against the nearest flat surface, if Eliot left bruises on _their_ skin.

It doesn’t last long, but it’s not like Hardison had expectations after that time on the couch. Eliot exhales sharply, close to his ear, and then Hardison feels him as he comes, shallow, irregular jerks of his cock that have Hardison right there on the edge with him.

 _“Eliot.”_ Nate’s voice breaks the soft chatter coming through the comms. His tone is all business, which says everything for him already. _“We have an issue inside.”_

Eliot pulls out and sits up, reaches up to his ear and switches the comm back on. “On my way,” he growls, even as he pulls his jeans back up. He bursts out Lucille’s back door, hair flying, and then he’s gone.

It shouldn’t be so hot, it really shouldn’t. But it is, and Hardison has to fist his cock – once, twice – and then he’s spilling over.

 _“Ah, Hardison?”_ Nate again. _“Eliot, uh. He didn’t damage you, did he?”_

Hardison can hear Eliot snort over the comm. He flips it on. “Nah,” he replies, and he sits up so he can start looking for his pants. “I’m good.”


End file.
